


The Unnatural

by scullywolf



Series: TXF: Scenes in Between [137]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Banter, F/M, Introspection, MSR, Missing Scene, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7550986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullywolf/pseuds/scullywolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't baseball; this is foreplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His plan is failing spectacularly.

He _thought_ it was a great plan. Elegant in its simplicity. Subtle yet effective. In retrospect, perhaps he went a little too far with the subtlety, which would explain why they've been here for nearly two hours already and she still hasn't caught on that he’s not really reading obituaries.

He taps a pencil absently against the desk. Maybe he should call it off. She just stepped out a few moments earlier, muttering something about Vitamin D and fresh air going to waste; maybe when she gets back, he should pretend to have found something and tell her they’re done here.

Except that he’s already dragged her out on a beautiful day -- as she keeps reminding him -- and if he packs it in after only a couple of hours, without even getting to the part where they flirt and he makes her laugh, then her lasting impression is going to be a negative one. He was supposed to charm her, not annoy her so much that the _next_ time he calls her up on a Saturday, she’ll turn him down.

No. No, he can salvage this. He has a whole speech prepared, about box scores and Pythagoras, baseball and actual human emotion, carefully crafted to appeal to both her scientific sensibilities and her romantic ones. He just needs to find an excuse to actually say it all. 


	2. Chapter 2

Damn. He’s gone about this _all_ wrong. He knows that now. He got so caught up in the idea of taking Scully to a ball game, in determining whether she would enjoy watching other people play, that he completely overlooked the obvious truth that baseball is best enjoyed first-hand. How could he have been so dense?

He doesn’t know what to make of Dales’s story, how much to take as literal truth and how much as metaphor, whether the old man was just yanking his chain about all of it. But he realizes now that none of that matters. If there were such a thing as fate, then it led has him here -- and had him sit through an hour of semi-coherent yammering -- for one glorious purpose: to understand that the best way to show Scully how he feels is to share something that he loves with her.

That the thing he loves happens to involve, in this particular case, the opportunity for some quality physical contact is just icing on the cake.


	3. Chapter 3

Of _course_ she's hit a baseball before. She grew up with two brothers, in sunny San Diego. It's not as if she was ever a super-fan or anything, but what suburban kid in the last hundred years has made it through adolescence without _ever_ hitting a baseball?

That said, it has been at least 20 years since the last time she played, and she has never, ever played it like this.

Mulder’s entire body is pressed up against her, warm and solid. His lips periodically graze her ear, sending shivers through her that she can’t simply blame on the ambient temperature. It’s not _that_ cool an evening. The smell of him surrounds her, and every time the bat and ball make contact, she can _feel_ the hitch and sharp exhalation of his breath. This isn’t baseball; this is foreplay.

It’s the very best kind of foreplay, too. She’s having trouble remembering (not that she’s devoting a _ton_ of effort to trying, at the moment) the last time she did something that was simultaneously so erotic and so much fun. The pitching machine is far from precise, and whenever a ball veers off to the side, she can’t help laughing as they lurch toward or away from it, stretching to reach or backing quickly out of the way. At the same time, their hips are practically fused together at this point; if it weren’t for her suede coat, she would be able to feel every inch of him through his jeans. 

As it is, she can at least tell that she is not the only one aroused right now. This knowledge both excites and terrifies her, even as some small part of her tries to rationalize it away as a mere physiological response to the unavoidable physical stimulation. These things happen (she doesn't need her medical degree to know that) and it doesn't have to _mean_ anything, necessarily. Given the rest of the evidence at hand, however -- the even-more-suggestive-than-usual comments, the fact that this little “birthday present” of his feels very much like a date, the way the tension between them has soared to new levels ever since the Padgett case -- it seems highly implausible that what she’s feeling against her backside is entirely the result of accidental friction.

She doesn’t mention it, doesn’t try to pull away, pretends she doesn’t notice. They’re both adults, here. Adults who, apparently, both want each other in a pretty major way. And that’s the part that scares her. It was one thing when she thought her feelings for Mulder weren’t reciprocated, at least not to the same extent. But if the possibility exists, _really_ exists, for them to completely change the nature of their relationship… well, that’s another thing entirely. It feels dangerous, like there’s far too much at stake if everything goes sideways. At the same time, it would be so easy to just give in to it; God knows she wants to. She could turn around right now, tilt her chin up and draw his mouth down to hers with the barest pressure of fingertips on the back of his neck. There is no doubt in her mind that he would be more than happy to go along with such a plan.

The rational part of her counters, again, with all of the reasons why that plan would be a terrible one. Once they go down that road, there will be absolutely no turning back. What if she disappoints him somehow? What if he disappoints her? (She can’t really imagine the latter; it seems inconceivable that a physical relationship with Mulder would be anything less than spectacular.) And even if everything did go well, there would still be the professional consequences to consider. They’d almost certainly be split up at work if anyone found out. 

Mulder shifts against her as another pitch goes wide, and that rational part of her is instantly drowned out by an involuntary surge of _want_. It is probably for the best that they have an audience. She spares a moment to wonder where this kid’s parents are.

“Looks like we’re almost out.” His murmur in her ear is almost breathy, and it takes her a second to realize what he’s talking about. Then she sees the empty basket on the ground, sees the boy dropping the last baseball into the pitching machine. “I’m feeling a home run here, Scully. You ready?”

“I don’t know, Mulder, I--” She cuts herself off with a surprised whoop as the ball flies toward the plate, dead center, and then she’s just reacting. No time to overthink it, hips before hands, and she leans into the swing, her arms and Mulder’s moving in perfect sync. The bat connects with a satisfying _crack_ , and the ball soars up and away.

It’s too dark to tell if it clears the fence, but it's got to be close to their best hit of the evening, at least. There’s probably a metaphor in there, somewhere.

She releases her hold on the bat as Mulder straightens and unwraps himself from around her. She pretends not to notice as he turns away, tugging the hem of his jersey downward just a little. Her gaze shifts toward the boy, who is starting to pick up the balls on the ground around him, and she walks forward to help.

“I’ll get those,” comes Mulder’s voice from behind her. She looks over her shoulder to see him pulling out his wallet. “Thanks for your help, kid.”

With a shrug, the boy drops what he’s holding into the basket and trots over to Mulder. As soon as Mulder hands him a couple of bills, he shoves the money into the pocket of his overalls and sprints off toward the gate.

“Do you know how far he’s going, on his own?” Scully asks, concerned. “It’s pretty late.”

Mulder points toward an apartment building visible just across the street from the baseball field. “He lives right over there. Convenient, huh? I bet he’d be more than happy to make a little extra cash if you wanted to do this again sometime.”

He’s flashing her a grin that makes her insides do a somersault, and for a moment she can imagine, in vivid detail, countless evenings spent tangled up in each other, laughing and flirting and hitting baseballs. Then she shakes her head, because there is no way that scenario doesn’t end up progressing well beyond a PG-13 rating, and fast.

“Maybe for _your_ birthday,” she says, smiling. It’s a safe deflection, since October is months away. Perhaps by then they’ll have either gone the fool’s way or figured out how to deal with the knowledge that their feelings for each other are mutual.

He studies her for a moment before bending down to pick up a ball near his feet and toss it in the basket. “This was fun though, right?” he says lightly.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was. I suppose slapping a piece of horsehide with a stick has its merits after all.” 

They share another grin, and she follows him toward first base, a bit off to one side to pick up the baseballs he misses along the way. For a while they’re quiet, working their way around the infield and companionably tidying up the remains of their evening, which allows the tension to dissipate somewhat. She gives herself permission to wonder if maybe it could work after all, if they were together for real. They already know how to fix things between them when they argue. They have been each other’s greatest weakness nearly from day one; sleeping together wouldn’t make either of them any more of a target than they already are. Nor would it make them any more apt to bend the rules or lie for each other. They've already been down that road plenty of times.

What it would do is give them both someone to come home to at night. Someone to chase away the nightmares. 

Her train of thought derails when Mulder turns back toward her, a dozen or more baseballs balanced in his arms. He looks so happy, boyish with a bit of dirt on his chin from tucking it against the pile of balls. She loves seeing him like this, carefree and totally in his element. Since they spend so much of their lives chasing monsters in the dark, it makes these rare moments of lightness all the more gratifying. 

Her own pockets are bulging, and they return to the basket together to deposit their collections.

“I think we can leave the ones in the outfield,” he says. “It’s probably too dark to find them all, anyway.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Just gotta put this stuff away over there.” He gestures toward the dugout before walking around to one side of the pitching machine. “I’ll drag this over if you want to grab the balls.”

He winks at her with an expression on his face that is simultaneously very cheesy and positively lewd. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t dignify that with a response, but the night has left her feeling bold.

“Careful asking that of a doctor, Mulder. Old habits die hard. I might ask you to turn your head and cough.”

The shock on his face is priceless.

Once they’ve put away the equipment, Mulder flicks the switch for the flood lights. Darkness descends on the field, the street lamps much too far away to provide any significant illumination. Scully has a pen light on her key ring, but she doesn’t pull it out right away, opting to let her eyes adjust instead. Mulder hasn’t moved, either, and as his form slowly comes into focus, she can make out the backward tilt of his head, his gaze trained on the sky.

“We really need to pull another case out in the middle of nowhere,” he says softly. “Too damned much light pollution here in the city. Don’t you miss seeing the stars at night?”

Ironic that it can be both too dark and too bright at the same time.

“My father used to say that nothing compared to the night sky out at sea,” she tells him, moving closer until her arm is just brushing his. She looks upward as well. “We had this little telescope we’d take with us when we went camping. And I thought it was amazing, seeing all the detail on the moon and looking at the stars up close. But I always wanted to see the sky the way my father described it, just an unfathomable number of stars, with the Milky Way stretching across like a giant rip in the heavens.”

She turns her face to find him looking down at her, eyes soft in the dim light, and for a moment she is certain that he is going to kiss her. 

She is equally certain that she is going to let him.

Her pulse pounds in her ears, trepidation warring with anticipation. If they do this, she is not entirely sure it will end there, and while her rational mind has one opinion on the matter, the bolt of heat in her middle has quite another.

When he raises his chin again instead, returning his focus upward, the disappointment is stronger than the relief.

“My stomach doesn’t have the best track record with long sea voyages,” he says, chuckling. “But I have to admit that does sound pretty appealing.”

There’s a sudden hissing sound, and they’re both in a defensive stance before they realize that the sound is that of the field’s sprinklers turning on. Laughing, they turn and quickly jog to the gate, managing to mostly avoid getting wet. Still chuckling, Mulder closes the gate behind them while Scully quickly examines her coat.

“Did the sprinkler get you?” he asks.

“Just a little on one arm. No big deal. You?”

“Nope. I'm still going to have to shower tonight, after all.”

Her mind lingers on _that_ mental image while she fishes her keys out of her pocket.

As they walk toward their cars, his hand comes to rest on the small of her back, and before she can think better of it, she loops her arm around his waist. He stiffens, and for half a second she worries she's overstepped. But he relaxes again almost immediately, letting his hand slide along her back until it settles on her hip.

And there it is, an experiment they carry out until they reach her car. It’s nice. Better than nice, it feels _right_. How are they ever going to manage walking side by side without touching, after this?

Too soon they’ve reached the end of their walk, and he’s withdrawing his arm from around her. Reluctantly, she pulls away from him as well, unlocking and opening her car door. When she turns back to face him, both his hands are in his pockets. He smiles at her.

“Have a good rest of the weekend, Scully. I’ll see you on Monday.”

She could still kiss him. Right now. Put her hands on his shoulders and stand on tiptoe and press her lips to his. Her eyes linger on his mouth, and she swallows, but gets in the car instead.

“Good night, Mulder. And thank you. That might have been the best very early or very late birthday present I’ve ever had.”


End file.
